


Unrest

by Kanarcia



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Friendship, Heavy Angst, It's really not that bad, Mild depictions of torture, There's some blood involved heads up, Trauma and recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8173178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarcia/pseuds/Kanarcia
Summary: After being rescued by a misfit band of adventurers, Percival struggles with coping with his dark past, especially after he realizes that his new home, Greyskull Keep, reminds him of his time under Anna Ripley's thumb.





	1. Chapter 1

Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III believes himself to be a man of few and simple needs. He works, lives and fights on his own, if he can. It was not until recently that after being rescued from hell, he was landed in the care of the company of one misfit band of adventures. As such, he does not ask for much from the others of Vox Machina unless he desperately needs something from them. One thing he does request is that he gets the room furthest from Grog and Scanlan’s snoring. Between the two of them, the rooms closest to them both were sure to be filled with a horrific combination of noise sure to keep him awake at night. He is a light sleeper, or at least that’s what he tells Vex’ahlia, who is in charge of room assignments. She agrees with him, and kindly puts his name on the furthest door at the end of the hall. In a moment of thought, she turn around and puts her own name on the door opposite of his, equally as far from the noisy sleepers. He thanks her, and moves his meager belongings into the room and closes the door behind him. The room is plain and rectangular, and just about twice the size of the cell he had occupied not too long ago. He sighs, shoving the memories back into his mind again. He had not thought about that place in some time, and it would do him no good to start now. Without a doubt, his new room would need some decoration to pull away from the slate grey of the keep walls. A knock comes to his door, distracting from his thoughts.

“Enter.” His voice cracks slightly, though hopefully not enough to raise any concern. Vax’ildan opens the door, clearing his throat as he enters.

“Ah, Percival. Vex’ahlia informed me that perhaps you would be resting in your new room. I hope you do not mind the intrusion.”

“Not at all. Please, come in.”

“Many thanks, Percival.” He stalks in through the open door, crossing the distance to Percival quickly. “Keyleth and I were wondering if you’d fancy a quick walk out to the Promenade to visit our good friend, Gilmore.”

Percival sighs, but smiles gratefully at his favorite rogue. “Thank you, Vax’ildan, but I do believe I will remain here, and perhaps get some work done. If I could bother you for a favor though, I would be very appreciative.”

“Of course.” Vax’ildan listens intently.

“I would like to decorate my room, to draw away from its plain appearance. Could you perhaps keep your eye out for a blue or yellow tapestry or some fabric? I will gladly pay you back if you happen to find one”

He looks at Vax’ildan, who smiles slightly, happy that Percival seems to be warming up to him a little more. “Most certainly. I will ask Gilmore is has anything to suit your particular style.” With that, Vax’ildan slinks back out the doorway, hearing a small thanks whispered by Percival as the door shuts behind him. 

Percival waits for a minute or two, holding his position until he is at the least fairly certain that there is no one upstairs any longer. He rises from his bed, and gathers his work gloves from the table by his nightstand, and his mask from the dresser. He holds his ear against the door, checking to see if he can hear anyone outside. Sensing no one, he opens the door and walks casually down the stairs closest to him, passing the main floor and heading into the basement. He passes the keep’s prison cell, regretting that he agreed to the building of it, and purposefully averts his eyes from its gleaming metal bars. He attempts to ignore it, and rushes into his workshop, where the air is cold from the lack of recent forge fire. 

Percival looks towards his coal pit, pulling a large bucket of coal that he will use during work today. He sets the coat out on the forge, picking out small pieces of rock meticulously. He does not stop until he’s sure that there are no stones left in the coal that could inhibit the fire reaching his iron. Donning his blacksmithing mask designed to keep the dust of the coal out of his lungs, and his gloves enchanted to resist the heat of the forge, Percival pours the coal onto his table and clears the ventilation holes. He crumples a piece of parchment and holds it to the open torch on the side of the room, igniting it. He buries it in the coal and waits for the white smoke to clear out of the room. He stokes the hot coals and begins to work the iron he has, his mind falling into routine and losing his focus on the outside world. 

It is not until much later that Percival is broken from his deep concentration by a loud knock on the workshop door. He wipes a line of sweat from his brow, leaving a dark and heavy line of coal soot on his face. Opening the door, he sees Grog staring down at him. With a surprised grunt, the goliath speaks.

“Pike said to find you, Percy. Dinner’s ready.”

Percival grimaces at the nickname, but doesn’t mention the improper use of his name. His two-syllable name was likely hard enough for Grog to say, and he did not want to push his luck with the giant man. Percival stifles the fire and follows Grog upstairs into the dining area. Keyleth and Vax’ildan seem to have returned from their venture into the city, and Percival realizes that he doesn’t know how long he had been downstairs. Taking a brief glance out the keep’s main entrance, he notices the sky is quickly becoming dark. He returns to the dining room, and sits at a table far from the others. The troop of adventures sees this, and they all move to be closer to him, talking about each of their days. Percival remains quiet, listening to the people around him talk and discuss their day. At some point during the discussion, Vax’ildan talks in his general direction, saying that Gilmore didn’t have anything like what Percival was looking for and he nods, moderately disappointed. Percival eats his meat and potatoes, provided by the sweet and caring Laina. The plate she specifically gave to him was piled high with food, and he was briefly reminded of his family’s own cook at the castle Whitestone. He chokes briefly, and clears his throat as subtly as he can. Near the end of their meal, Grog falls asleep at the table, while Vax’ildan and Vex’ahlia announce that they are going to head up to bed simultaneously. Tiberius follows suit, while Scanlan chooses to find his way to a nearby tavern and enjoy his night in an improper fashion. Percival sighs, and stands from his spot at the table. He legs cramp briefly, and he says his goodbye to Pike and Keyleth, who he is sure will be up for a while longer before heading to sleep themselves.

Percival stretches his legs out, walking back up the stairs to his plain, grey bedroom. In a moment of thought, he returns to the dining room where Grog remained asleep and reaches into the bag of holding for a blanket or some other piece of fabric with which he would be able to cover himself with as he sleeps. Much like his room is empty, save for the main pieces of furniture, his bed lacks any sort of blanket or covering over the straw mattress. Percival pulls a plain brown blanket from Grog’s bag and resumes going up to bed. Once he stands at his bed, Percival throws the blanket over it, and removes his glasses before falling to his pillow, exhausted. 

Percival finds himself awaken a dark, dank room. He is lying on what feels like a stone floor and he opens his eyes slowly. He recognizes the skull-shaped sconces of the keep’s basement. Opening his eyes further, he sees himself behind the bars of the prison cell. Had he gotten there in his sleep? Percival holds a moment as he hears the clik-clacking of heels against the stone stairs coming into the basement. He sees the figure of a woman approach him, garbed in red, her hair pulled tight into a bun. His breathing stops, and for a moment his heart freezes in place. He suddenly can’t move, and he is stuck to to stone floor. The woman stands before him, her face barely illuminated by the wall sconces in the hallway. Dr. Anna Ripley smiles at him, with a sickly, toothy grin. She grabs the prison cell keys from the wall by the door and opens the bars with a sickening creak. She grabs him by the front of his shirt. No longer is he wearing his deep blue coat, but a brown, tattered sack. He is lifted to his feet as Ripley closes the door behind her. She pulls a knife from her side and holds it up to him. 

“Oh, Percival, it is so good to see you once again. I have missed our little talks.” She presses the blade of her knife into his arm, just barely drawing blood. He does not move, and he makes no noise. He knows that if he does, she will only find pleasure in it. Ripley drags the knife against him, up his arm, towards his neck. In desperation, Percival tries to mentally remove himself from the situation. He was supposed to be safe here. His friends we supposed to come to his rescue. If they just knew he was trapped. If they just knew what was happening! Surely they would save him. Ripley turns from him briefly to reach for her waist pouch. In it, he is sure she would have all of the instruments he had found him subjected to during his time under her care. From her bag of holding, Dr. Ripley retrieves a sheepsfoot knife and pushes it into the skin above his heart. She traces checkered lines across his breast, leaving small trails of blood running down his body. Percival whimpers quietly, resolve breaking as he is once again subjected to the same torture he endured for months. He can’t focus on anything other that the blade of Ripley’s knife. It hurts, oh it hurts so much, and there is nothing he can do against her.

Anna Ripley smiles at him again, and it makes him sick. “Come now, Percival. You know what I need to know. Just tell me about your guns. Teach me how to make them. This can be over quickly if you just cooperate.” In a single act of desperation and defiance, Percival kicks his torturer in her shins, and spits at her face.

“I will _never_ tell you.” 

Dr. Ripley frowns for the first time that Percival has seen, and she smashes the blade of her knife into his chest just under his heart into his lung. She lets him drop to his knees as he finally screams. He screams as loud as he can, praying to any of the six gods who might hear him, to his friends upstairs and to his family, that they might come back as vengeful spirits and save him from this torture. He falls, unable to hold himself on his knees and lands on the knife sticking out of him, jamming it further into him, smashing its point through his lung, and into his heart. His eyes open in shock, before Percival falls silent.


	2. Chapter 2

Percival sits up with a start and a yell, clutching his chest tightly. His eyes futilely try to adjust to the complete darkness he is in. Instead of the cold, stone floor he vividly remembers falling onto, he is wrapped tightly in a scratchy blanket- the one he borrowed from Grog. Dazed and confused, Percival stands and unwraps himself from the blanket, nearly falling. He grabs for his glasses, knocking onto the floor and shattering them without noticing. He leaves them, and makes him way for the door. It opens with a hard slam, and Percival winces sharply. He makes his way down the stairs, tripping on the bottom step and falling to his hands and knees. He lets out a cry as his skin is broken, but he gets up and stumbles across the foyer to the double doors to the keep’s chapel. Percival is not a religious man, but even he can appreciate the serenity of Sarenrae’s presence. As he opens the door, Percival stands in awe of the beautiful stained glass of the chapel, illuminated by the moonlight. He feels the spirit of Pike’s goddess wash over him as he sits by her statue, attempting to comfort him, but to no avail. He feels numb and lost, with no way of knowing what is real.

Vex’ahlia lingers in the doorway of Sarenrae’s chapel, watching Percy quietly. She had heard his scream, which had roused her from her light sleeping state. She waited a moment before following him down the hallway once he left his room, slamming his door. This has happened several times before, each instance waking Vex with alarm, though she had started to get used to it. She had followed Percy’s footfalls down the stairs, channeling her brother’s ability to walk in the shadows unseen. She watched him, always curious what drove him to seek the peace that he did so late at night. Like clockwork, he would stumble to the chapel after waking, then sit in complete silence until the moon had started to dip below the windows, but long before the sun began to rise. True to his schedule, it was at about that time that Percy rose slowly, turning towards the door. Vex saw that his eyes still seemed as if they were clouded over. She slinks away from the door, allowing Percy to pass by without her disturbing him. He walks past her through the hallway toward the stairs. He would be going back to bed, and come morning, Percy would not remember the events that had transpired this evening. Instead of walking back up the stairs, Percy stands at their base before turning away from them. As if in a trance, he stumbles down the stairs towards the basement. Vex again follows him, curious as to the change in his path.

Percival finds his way down the stairs, hanging onto the wall in the hope that he would be able to catch himself if he fell. As he glances toward the cell to his right side, he winces. The cold grey of the steel bars seems unwelcoming, but at the same time beckon him towards them. His steps falter, and he finds himself walking towards the cell as if he doesn’t have any control over his legs. His hands reach up to touch the bars, and he freezes before he touches them. The inside of the cell is empty, and he is reminded of each time he would be brought back to his own cell. He would be shoved against the enchanted bars, so cold that they would leave burns on his face. He would scream and cry until his captors were satisfied, at which point he would be thrown through the door and onto the floor. Percival chokes out a quiet sob, trying to push away the pain that he can still feel burning into his skin, years later. Hearing a clang from upstairs, he turns quickly, startled. Percival lurches towards his workshop door, throwing it open. The heavy door hits the wall with a bang, and Percival staggers into the place where he feels the safest. As if on autopilot, he starts the forge fire, and throws a chunk of iron into to heart. This is his home, his sanctuary. Here is where he can purely exist.

As he grabs for his bullet mold, his ungloved hand brushes across his tongs, pockmarked by acid and months of heavy use. Percival swears, dropping the acid-laden metal. Seemingly awoken from his stupor briefly, he grabs for a pouch of white powder that is close by. It is high on a shelf, and he can barely reach it. He moves to open the bag, but stops, staring at his hands. They are red and irritated from the introduction of the corrosive liquid. It is interesting, he thinks, that after being hurt for so long with no reprieve, it is only the time he accidentally hurts himself that he takes notice of the physical pain affecting his body. It is a welcome change from the agony that affects his mind and soul. Percival makes no move to pour the neutralizing agent on his hands, and instead falls to his knees. Percival is transfixed by the burning pain coursing through his hands, and watches as his skin peels away from his body. He does not notice Vex’ahlia walk up to him from his side and take the pouch from him, putting her hand on his shoulder. His hands fall to his sides, and he sits backwards on his feet. Vex’ahlia kneels by him, taking the powder in one of her hands, and his wrists in her other. In silence, she sprinkles it over his palms and fingers, allowing for it to do its work. Percival opens his mouth, as if to thank her, but instead weeps openly. Vex’ahlia holds his hands. It is the first time in years that he has let tears fall from his eyes.

They sit together for some time in complete silence. The only thing that can be heard is the vague clattering of pots and pans from upstairs. It is quite likely that Laina is working on preparing a hardy breakfast for the staff and members of the keep. Even when the noise above stops, and Vex'ahlia can hear Erwen's cane clicking up the stairs above them, they do not move. Vex'ahlia believes that this, perhaps, is something they need to work through together, before going up to see everyone else. Without a doubt, Percy would not be able to face their friends in his current state. Just as she is starting to grow sore from sitting on the stone ground, she hears Percy take a sharp, shaky breath in before speaking so softly that Vex can hardly hear him.

“It hurts. Everything hurts so much but I can’t feel any of it.” Vex pulls Percy into her arms, holding him quietly. She strokes his hair gently and rubs his back absentmindedly. It is comforting, and Percy leans into her friendly, familiar frame.

“Oh, Percy, darling. I’m here for you. Vox Machina is here for you.” For once, Percy does not mind the nickname, finding comfort in the familiarity and the trust they have, and he falls asleep in his friend’s arms. He is safe at last.


End file.
